


prince with a thousand enemies

by AmaranthBlue



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Deadlock Gang, Deadlock Jesse McCree, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guns, Holidays, Hospitals, Jesse McCree Has ADHD, Jewish Gabriel Reyes, Kidnapping, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Trans Jesse McCree, but like antagonistic and also not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthBlue/pseuds/AmaranthBlue
Summary: This is how it goes, he thinks. In all the Westerns, all the books, all the movies, everything he’s ever buried his head in for an escape from life, they always warn you: The age of the outlaw is coming to an end. This land will be settled, the West will be won. This is no place for outlaws, not anymore.“Look,” Jesse finally says, and the argument comes to a screeching halt as they suddenly remember they’re not alone. “We don’t need to fight back. Let’s just sell off the shit we still got in the garage, get our cash, and get outta here. Head up north, maybe. Where the trains don’t run. Lie low for a few months, then we can get back to business.”For the last two years, the Deadlock Gang has been a scourge on the Southwest United States. Up until a job goes wrong and draws international attention, leading Overwatch and one Gabriel Reyes right to their doorstep.Jesse McCree takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe & Jesse McCree, Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 16
Kudos: 103





	prince with a thousand enemies

“Please remain calm,” Jesse calls out, the same phrase he’s said a hundred thousand times before, to a hundred thousand different people, all about to have a decidedly not-calm time. 

He cocks his revolver and points it up at the ceiling of the train car, just to be sure he’s got their attention, though it was already dead silent in here. “If you fine folks would stay in your seats, and hand over all your valuables, that would be  _ very much appreciated _ .” 

It’s a passenger train this time, though they’ve still not sold off their last crate of merchandise from the military caravan last month. He figured they’d be better off giving the government a break. Besides, rich folks are easy targets. 

Marcela and Barns start going down the aisles with the bags, getting generous donations of watches, rings, necklaces, and cash, every once in a while, but none of these type tend to carry it much. 

The four of them are a sight to behold—Deadlock cuts, with yellow Deadlock bandanas pulled up over their faces, Deadlock, Deadlock, Deadlock. Everything about them screams it, because that way, the cops go looking into the motorcycle club they’d borrowed these things from, and not into the teenagers masquerading around as them. 

Ashe is across the train car, her own rifle aimed at the crowds. She spots him looking and gives a wink, and just as quickly turns her attention back to the folks being robbed. 

“No one needs to get hurt,” Jesse announces, following along behind Barns as they get bits of gold and silver jewelry. “You’ve all got more than enough.” 

They’ve been through this song and dance so many times that people don’t resist it anymore. They know it’s better to give up their gold than their lives. 

Even if they’ve never killed anyone, and never plan to, they’ve got a fearsome reputation and they aren’t afraid to use it to their advantage. 

“Don’t be a hero,” Ashe says down the row. A man sitting there is refusing to hand over his watch, it looks like, and Jesse shakes his head slightly. They can deal with it themselves. He’s got to keep an eye on Barns. 

They’ve done this so many times, they’re all more relaxed than they ought to be. The bag slowly gets filled, and Jesse keeps speaking up every once in a while, just to remind them not to start any shit. 

Of course, there’s always one asshole. 

It all happens in the blink of an eye. There’s whispering, then shifting, then footsteps, then something slamming to the floor and shouting, and Jesse spins around to see Ashe on the ground, a man pinning her down, her gun too far for her to reach—

Jesse lifts his gun and fires. 

Blood sprays through the air. 

The body crumples on top of her, and all goes silent. 

Every pair of eyes in the train car goes from the man’s corpse, and slides over to Jesse, still holding his gun, his eyes wide. Silent as the grave. 

Ashe shoves the body off of her and grabs for her gun, but she doesn’t get to her feet, just looking up at Jesse with more fury than he’s ever seen.

“What the  _ fuck _ have you done?”

* * *

“We’re screwed.” Barns takes a drag off their cigarette, speaking casually, as if it’s not the end of the goddamn world. As if they’re not being hunted. They leans back in their chair, feet kicked up on the table, bitterly resigned to the fact. 

“No, no, we’re not. Not yet—” Marcela snaps, and then the argument starts up all over again. 

“It was one fuckin’ thing when it was the cops, feds, but this shit? We don’t stand a fuckin’ chance—”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve already given up—”

“We are  _ dead in the water,” _ they hiss, grinding their cigarette out on the table.

It’ll leave a mark, Jesse thinks absently. The small circle already smudged into the wood. Like a bullet hole. In his head, it catches fire. In his head, the four of them don’t keep sitting around this table going in circles. They focus on things they can actually take care of. 

He takes a drag from his own cigarette, paying more attention to the taste of tobacco than the argument cycling around the third, perhaps fourth, time. 

Overwatch is coming for them now. What can they do?

A bunch of small town kids trying to fight an international military force. 

They haven’t been doing so bad with the American military, really, but this is much bigger. This is  _ war. _

Jesse glances over to Ashe. She’s not said much either, but he can see what she’s thinking.  _ How do we come out on top? _

They don’t. 

This is how it goes, he thinks. In all the Westerns, all the books, all the movies, everything he’s ever buried his head in for an escape from life, they always warn you:  _ The age of the outlaw is coming to an end. This land will be settled, the West will be won. This is no place for outlaws, not anymore.  _

“Look,” Jesse finally says, and the argument comes to a screeching halt as they suddenly remember they’re not alone. “We don’t need to fight back. Let’s just sell off the shit we still got in the garage, get our cash, and get outta here. Head up north, maybe. Where the trains don’t run. Lie low for a few months, then we can get back to business.”

Barns gestures to him. “See? He’s got the right idea. Hell, let’s go to Mexico, why don’t we?”

Ashe shakes her head. “No. They’re gonna be lookin’ for us at the borders. We stay in the States, at least until the heat dies down.”

“What, we’re gonna turn tail and run?” Marcela looks at the three of them, aghast at the very thought. 

“You wanna take on international military by yourself, you be my guest.” Jesse raises an eyebrow at her, and she has the good sense to swallow their next words. 

Barns is right. They’re dead already. But he doesn’t want to say it out loud. Find the answer. Find the way out. They’ll survive. 

They have to. 

* * *

The High Side has long been a friend of the Deadlock Gang. At first, just a place to gather and discuss their plans at the booth hidden away in the corner. Then paying off the owner to use the back room for a little more privacy, and then for storage of their more illicit materials. 

Guns, namely. 

And whatever else they haul off the trains. 

It’s a Monday afternoon and the bar is empty, save for two regulars minding their business, Emilio manning the bar, and Jesse, who’s taking a momentary break from the garage to grab a drink and watch the news, posted up at the bar and watching the TV up in the corner. 

There’s still a little black grease on his hands. He’s planning to get back to working on the truck once he’s finished his drink, so he won’t go to the trouble of cleaning it up, not just yet, but the scent lingers on his glass as he raises it to his lips and watches the news. 

Overwatch. Of course that’s all anyone wants to talk about. They’ve not been in America since the Crisis, so allowing them jurisdiction is the government practically admitting defeat. 

It does make him smile. Just a little. 

The doors push open and Jesse doesn’t turn his head, simply tracks the newcomer in the corner of his eye as he makes his way to the bar. A long coat, falling to his knees. Closely cropped hair, almost a military style. Dark skin. 

The stranger settles in the seat one away from Jesse, his own gaze drawn to the TV as well. 

_...Eugene Brown, the first civilian death by the Deadlock Gang that’s spurred authorities to come down harder than ever before on the crime epidemic sweeping the Southwest.  _

_ Gabriel Reyes, _ the news anchor explains,  _ who lead the Strike Team during the Crisis and saved countless lives— _

“You mind changing the channel?” The stranger says, nodding to the TV. His voice has a certain gravitas to it, the kind that won’t let you ignore it. 

Emilio grabs the remote off the back counter and does as he asks, and the channel flips over to a Christmas movie, filled with red and green and little soft string lights. 

“I was watchin’ that,” Jesse says dryly. 

The stranger gives him a sideways glance, nothing more. “Sorry. Gets old, hearing about it all the time.”

He’s older, maybe in his forties. Must’ve heard an awful lot about Overwatch back during the Crisis. Maybe even fought with them. This area’s full of old veterans scraping out a living. 

But he looks like he’s still serving. It’s in the stance, really, that specific confidence instilled in a soldier from boot camp that stays with him throughout his whole life. The hair, the straight back, the steady shoulders. 

“You serve?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

The man looks twice at him, curious, his eyes dropping to his grease stained hands, traveling up to the Deadlock Rebels tattoo inked in black on his arm. ”I did,” the man says, meeting his gaze once more. “Still do.”

Jesse makes a point of picking up his drink with his left hand, showing off the tattoo. There’s thousands of people with this mark. And he’s got no reason to be afraid. “Which branch, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“Marines.” 

That tracks. Jesse’s known a few high schoolers who’ve enlisted, and he’s run into enough ex-military folks in his business in the last few years to know that Marines are smart. They’re almost never good people or even that emotionally stable, but they’re smart. And dangerous. 

“Really?” The lie is instinctive. “My old man, too.” 

“But not you.” Again, his eyes are on the tattoo, then his face.

Jesse lifts his glass to his lips once more, taking a slow drink, watching the TV rather than meeting the man’s gaze. “Well, he was a rotten old bastard.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of him, a commiserating kind of laugh. “Sorry to hear that.”

Jesse doesn’t say another word. He watches the TV, where a Santa gives a sweet smile to a pair of kids and waves his goodbye, and Jesse rolls his eyes, and sips his drink, and ignores the soldier sitting five feet away. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Deadlock Gang,” the man says, just as casual, just as calm.

“Sure,” Jesse replies. “Who hasn’t?” Still not looking at him. He’s here about Deadlock, of fucking course. 

“Heard they’re pretty active around here.” 

Jesse sighs, looking over at him. Even as he dread knots up his stomach, he stays casual. “Just ‘cause I got the tattoo don’t mean I’m part of their little gang. I do bikes, not trains. Now, if you’re about done, officer, I’d like to have my drink in peace.” 

The man—a cop, he’s almost sure—drops the friendly facade, giving a single nod. “Sorry to bother you.” He presses a black card onto the bar and slides it over to him. “You ever feel like talking, give me a call.”

With the tone of someone who knows that there’s something hiding here. 

Jesse gestures Emilio over to refill his drink without looking at the card. 

The man stands, though he leans against the bar and calls Emilio’s attention once the drink has been refilled. “Could I speak to the owner?”

Emilio eyes the guy. “Who’s askin’?”

Jesse flips the card over, glancing at it. No name. Just a number. Pretentious. 

The man slips his wallet from his pocket and shows his ID, and Jesse rolls his eyes, sipping his drink again.

“Gabriel Reyes. Overwatch.”

His grip tightens so much on the glass he thinks it might shatter. 

Emilio and Gabriel fucking Reyes step away, leaving Jesse to his minor heart attack, staring at his drink and praying that Emilio’s not going to spill the second he’s out of earshot. 

War hero. Super soldier. The guy out for his fucking blood. 

Sitting five feet away from him. 

With a white-knuckled grip on the glass, he finishes the rest of his drink and silently sets it down on the bar. The card, he palms, slips it into his pocket. Forget being subtle. He needs to get out of here. 

Without another glance, he’s up on his feet and making his way out of the bar, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on before he steps out into the bitter cold. 

With that number burning in his pocket. 

* * *

That night, Ashe finds him while he’s out in the garage, tinkering with his bike. He does it often, when he’s trying to have a moment alone, some time to think. And the brakes have been jerky, so now he’s changing out the cable, though it’s really more to distract himself from their impending doom. 

Ashe lingers in the doorway, watching him for a long moment before she speaks. “Davis backed outta the deal.” 

Jesse closes his eyes, takes a breath, tries to fight off the pit of dread in his stomach. “Did she say why?”

“Too much heat. If she tries to sell it right now, she’s gonna be in cuffs by the end of the week.” 

Of course. Same reason they’re trying to ditch the merchandise they’ve still got. Overwatch. 

Ashe steps over to him, crouching down in front of the bike. “What’s the problem over here?” She changes the subject just like that, already knowing that he’s trying to find some kind of escape. He appreciates it.

Jesse shrugs, gesturing to the brake cable hanging from the handlebars that he’s yet to fully lock in. “Brakes were gettin’ a little rough, and the cable was startin’ to fray, so I figured I’d fix it while I still can. Just got too old, nothin’ catastrophic.” 

“We all gotta stop sometime,” Ashe says, watching his hands as he grabs a wrench from the toolbox. 

Jesse pauses, looking over at her. “Wow. Turnin’ my bike into an overdramatic metaphor.”

Ashe runs a hand through her hair, looking more tired than he thinks he’s ever seen her. “Just thinkin’ out loud, Jesse.”

“Go think out loud somewhere else,” he mutters, taking to unscrewing a bolt particularly angrily. “Find us a new buyer while you’re at it.”

The bolt drops and clinks against the ground, sounding like a bullet dropping to the cement floor, and Jesse winces at the memory, at the wound in his gut and Ashe’s so very steady hands. 

“Fine.” Ashe gives him one last glower and gets to her feet, and gives their very last crate of merchandise, hidden away in the corner with a blue tarp covering it, another sour look on her way out. 

The moment the door slams behind her, Jesse drops the wrench, rubbing his face. It’s stupid to be fighting right now, but it’s just—every little thing is starting to piss him off now. 

And they don’t even have a way to get rid of this shit, the shit they risked their lives to get and they can’t even sell it, can’t get any cash to get out of this miserable fucking state. 

* * *

Jesse can’t stand crowds. 

Which sucks for him, because it’s just basic logic that they’re the best place to slip away into when being chased by a cop. 

He’s at the mall feeding change into a payphone as the crowds swell around him, hiding him from view in the little alcove. 

And he’s holding up that stupid business card as he punches in the numbers, watching how the light bounces off the silver ink. 

Two minutes to call. That’s more than enough time. He checks his watch, waits for it to hit one o’clock exactly before he dials and holds the receiver up to his ear, his heart beating loud in his ears. 

He doesn’t  _ need _ to do this. But it’s a small comfort, sort of. Timing how long it takes the cops to show after given the signal. He’s done it countless times when they were hitting banks, counting how many cars would show up, guessing at how many were on duty. So when it’s a real emergency, they have a timeframe to work with. 

Reyes still hasn’t picked up. Three rings. Four. Five. 

It’s about to go to voicemail when there’s a click, a faint breath on the other side. “This is Gabriel Reyes, who am I speaking to?”

Jesse doesn’t answer at first. He had a plan for what to say, but as plans often do, it’s gone out the window the moment he was meant to put it into action. 

“Hello?”

He’s gonna miss his chance. 

“Heard you were lookin’ for me,” Jesse finally says, his voice relaxed, his mind racing. 

There’s a long pause, one that sounds like it should be accompanied with papers rustling, a keyboard clacking, even a pen clicking. But there’s just dead air. 

He must recognize him from the bar. Wouldn’t he?

“I don’t believe I ever got your name.”

He does. Of course he does. 

“Jesse,” he answers. What’s the harm? He’ll figure it out anyway. “Jesse McCree.” 

“Nice to talk with you again, Jesse.” His voice is relaxed, but there’s an edge beneath it, caution, like he’s speaking with the devil himself. 

The thought nearly makes him laugh. 

“Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.” Jesse leans against the wall, looking out through the clear plastic windows to the rest of the mall, families and couples and kids his age wandering with shopping bags in hand. 

Easy to hide in that once the cops show. 

“Well, Jesse, you’ve all made quite a name for yourselves.” Now there’s the sound of paper rustling, and Jesse can imagine it, flipping open the manila folder that holds a mile long rap sheet. “Nearly two dozen trains you’ve hit in the last two years. Not to mention the three banks, and the trail of gas stations and convenience stores you hit immediately after you ran away. And the bodies you left behind.”

Jesse winces. The gas stations were a poor choice, but that was in the aftermath of panic. That was after he pulled the trigger, when he realized he had to run or let them drag him to prison. Barely two hundred bucks on each take, plus whatever shit they grabbed off the shelves. 

They’ve hurt people, yeah. Killed some. But it wasn’t as if they were running around on a killing spree. 

Not until this last job.

Eugene Brown—a boring name, a boring man. The only reason anyone’s looking at him is because he tried to be a hero and caught a bullet. “We ain’t hurt anyone who didn’t need to be hurt.” 

“That’s not for you to decide, Jesse.” 

Jesse scoffs, both at the typical sentiment and the use of his first name. “Sure. And I suppose you ain’t ever killed anyone, then?”

Forty five seconds on the clock. It’s a good time for him to dip out of here. 

“It’s not something to be taken lightly.” His voice is firm, almost lecturing.

“Never said it was, Gabriel.” He puts emphasis on his name, a very clear lack of respect that he never can resist. 

One minute. Time to go.

“No,” Reyes says, thoughtful. “No, I imagine you put quite a lot of thought into killing Frank Carver.” 

Jesse’s grip on the receiver tightens until he imagines the plastic will crack, his breath caught in his throat, the accusation sending him three years back in time. 

The glass shatters. 

The gun fires. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about that,” he snaps, far more brittle than he was only moments ago. He can smell the gunpowder. 

“It turns out no one does,” Reyes replies. There’s a new tone now, one he can’t place. Not quite so stern. “Aside from the kids inside the house. In fact, Mrs. Carver insists she didn’t see anything.”

But she  _ was _ there. And she didn’t do anything to stop him—

“What are you on about?” Jesse’s voice drops low, holding the receiver with both hands, now, a lifeline. 

“Your foster siblings,” Reyes says, and there’s the shuffling paper again. “Have each confessed to being the one to pull the trigger. All three of them.”

_ I am Spartacus, _ he thinks, almost laughing out loud. He  _ does,  _ and looks up at the ceiling, genuinely laughing at the absurdity of it all. He ran away, and even still, they chose to protect him and each other, and—

“And even with that, there’s enough on Mr. Carver’s rap sheet to make self-defense believable.” It’s odd. He can almost imagine the smile on his face, which is weird, because.. this is a loss for him, isn’t it? He can’t pin it on anyone and make it stick. 

“Why’re you tellin’ me all this?” Jesse checks the clock again, and the call’s almost finished. He’s not about to waste any more change on this. Need to get out of here, anyway.

“You have the right to know.” A quiet sigh on the other side. “We should talk, Jesse.”

“Ain’t we doin’ that right now?” Not for much longer. Thirty seconds left on the call.

“In person. Face to face. I can help you, Jesse.” Much more gentle than before. 

He scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. The longer you’re out there, the deeper you dig yourself, the more likely it is you catch a bullet.” 

The classic. He wants him to give himself up, hand over his gun, and let them cuff him, so he can just lock him up and be done with it. Lock him in a cell and throw away the key. 

“I ain’t gonna be the one with my finger on the trigger, though.” He smiles, looking down. “I get hurt, that’s on your conscience.” 

Fifteen seconds left on the call. 

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Jesse.” He’s still so calm, despite the threat.

“Go fuck yourself, Gabriel.” Jesse slams the phone back onto the hook. He leans against the wall and takes a shaky breath, an attempt to calm himself before he heads out. 

One minute and fifty three seconds. 

He slips out into the crowd, sticking to the plan, keeping his head down and watching for any blue uniforms, any men in suits, anyone who shouldn’t be here. 

But he makes it out to the parking lot. To his truck, parked right across from the entrance, with a perfect view of the road, and he checks his watch. Three minutes and counting. 

Five minutes. No cops.

Ten. 

Fifteen. 

Twenty. 

No cops.

He stops the clock at twenty seven minutes and thirteen seconds. No one is coming. 

For whatever reason, Gabriel Reyes didn’t sic the cops on him. 

He’s not quite sure what to make of that.

* * *

Middle of the night. Moonlight slips through the closed blinds, drawing lines across the hardwood floor, a crosshatch of silver. 

Jesse’s half awake. He doesn’t know how late it is, he doesn’t care much, either. 

He’s staring at the dark shapes outlined in his room, not even really seeing them, just turning those words over in his head.  _ I don’t want you to get hurt, _ he said, the liar. 

He doesn’t give a shit about him, he was just saying what he thought Jesse wanted to hear. 

What he said about Carver. About everyone lying for his sake. That was probably bullshit, too, just trying to make him think that the consequences won’t be quite so harsh. That things will work out just fine. 

Why would they ever risk themselves for him? It’s plain stupid of them, especially since he’s already run off. 

His door creaks open and Jesse pulls his gun from beneath the pillow, aiming it at the silhouette in less than a second. He’s intimately familiar with the revolver, every piece of it, and it fits in his hand like it was made just for him. 

White hair. Messy, like she’s been tossing and turning. 

Ashe. 

He lowers the gun, breathes a soft sigh. 

“You plan on pullin’ the trigger?” She asks, still hovering in the doorway with a weak smile on her face. 

“Not quite yet,” Jesse replies. Not again. He sets the gun on the nightstand, next to the book where he’s hidden that damn business card between the pages. An old, well-worn copy of  _ Watership Down. _

It’s not something he brought from home. He picked it up from a used bookstore. But it is sentimental, still—something his mother would read to him, every once in a while. 

But that’s stupid and sappy, and he doesn’t tell another fucking soul about it. 

Jesse pushes himself up on his elbow, then sits up properly, pats the spot on the bed next to him. 

Ashe steps inside, easing the door shut behind herself, and comes over to settle next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder without a second thought. “Don’t mean to bother you.”

“Ain’t no bother,” he replies, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”

“Just a rough night.” She pauses, then shrugs. “Rough week, I suppose. You ain’t been talkin’ much, are you good?”

Jesse doesn’t answer at first. He never told her about meeting an Overwatch agent at the bar, never told any of them, though he told Emilio that he’d let them all know. 

And he didn’t share the business card, the number, or the fact that he’d  _ called him.  _ So stupid, but it’s too late now, because it’ll seem like he has something to hide, but he’s just—trying to figure out a way out of all this. For all of them. Unharmed. 

They don’t need anything else to be arguing about. All they know is that Overwatch is here and looking for them, and Jesse can handle the intricacies of that just fine. 

“Just thinkin’ too much.”

Ashe nudges him with her elbow. “Well, quit it. I miss hearin’ your voice.”

Jesse smiles. This is how most of Ashe’s compliments arrive—hidden in a Trojan horse of a sarcastic insult, barked orders, or faux anger. 

It’s hard for either of them to just come out and say it. Anything.

“You come in here just to check on me?” A challenge more than a question. 

“Nope.” Ashe shoots a smile at him, but it’s forced. “Little more selfish than that. You okay if I spend the night in here?”

Comfort, then. He’s well-versed in that. 

Jesse leans back enough to grab the blanket and pull it up over her shoulders, not giving her a chance to pretend she doesn’t appreciate it. “Bad dream?” 

A quiet sigh. “Yeah, it’s—” She shakes her head and leans into him, cocooned so snugly in the blanket. “It’s real fuckin’ stupid, honestly, compared to the shit that you got. I don’t even know why it..” She trails off. The door’s sliding shut as she tries to dismiss it, retreating into herself. Maybe just to think on her words some more. 

She does that sometimes, falling silent in the middle of saying something. Jesse’s learned not to prompt her when she does, because it means her mind is racing away a million miles a minute, computing her calculations and risks and rewards far quicker than he could ever hope to. 

And he hates that she does this—not that he’s annoyed with her, just that she acts like he’s the only martyr. As if he’s the only one in the world who’s ever had a rough time. Measuring herself against him. 

It turns it into a contest and he can’t stand that, that they can’t just admit they’re both a little fucked up. 

“You wanna talk about it?”  _ Get that stupid weight off your chest, _ he wants to tell her. They all sleep a little easier when they share the burden. 

Ashe wipes her face and shrugs, a little helplessly. “I was just.. back at home. On one of their stupid estates, I don’t know which one, it was—dream logic, I guess. And both of them were there, but they wouldn’t look at me, and they were walkin’.. somewhere, I guess, and I kept tryin’ to talk to them, and chase after them, and it was like I wasn’t even there. And I—I was just screamin’ and cryin’ and tryin’ to get them to do anythin’ at all, but they didn’t—I wasn’t—” She drops her face into her hands, groaning. “It’s not even that fuckin’ scary. But here I am.”

Jesse considers her words. He imagines it: a long dark hallway stretching on forever with the stone faces of Mr. and Mrs. Ashe refusing to even look at their daughter, to give her the time of day. Nearly robotic in how they stare straight ahead and ignore her. Like they always have, really. Even while she begs and pleads. 

“Can I be honest?” Jesse murmurs, his voice low. 

“Aren’t you always?” Her voice drips with sarcasm, despite the strain hiding beneath it. 

“That sounds pretty fuckin’ scary.” He nudges her and gives a small sympathetic smile. It’s not as if he’s lying—he’d be just as shaken up if he had a dream like that. But he doesn’t think he’s got anyone who’d be on the other end. 

Ashe scoffs. But she doesn’t say anything else. Just leans into him, her head on his shoulder, her arm around him and his arm around her. 

“Get some sleep?” Jesse’s voice goes low. He doesn’t want to break the quiet calm that’s filled the room. 

All he gets in reply is a nod, but that’s good enough. He settles back in bed, grabbing at the blankets and making room for her to slide in beside him, and she does, leaving the slightest bit of space between them. Three inches. No more, no less. 

The moonlight sweeps over them, soft blue, and it’s easily calming, and now that he has company, Jesse starts to drift off.

“We’re gonna get out of this,” Ashe finally says. “I’ll get us out of this.”

Jesse nudges her with his elbow. “Ain’t all on you, you know.”

But her eyes are open again, and in them, a fire, a fervor like he’s not sure he’s ever seen. 

“I mean it,” Ashe says, and she’s already made up her mind. “There’s no price too high to pay, not if it means our freedom. I’ll kill for it and even die for it, but we ain’t ever goin’ home again.” 

Something about that makes Jesse’s gut twist. Neither of them are afraid to get their hands dirty, that’s no news, but her idea that the worst thing that might happen to them is just to go home. As if they won’t be thrown in cells, as if they won’t be on death row, even. 

But she won’t, he thinks. 

If she’s caught, she’ll get a slap on the wrist because her parents have money: a gift that won’t be extended to him, to Marcela, to Barns. 

She may go home. They won’t. 

“I believe you,” Jesse says, because he doesn’t really want to argue it or call her on it, not just now. 

Maybe she sees something in his face, because her brows draw together, in a funny little motion that reminds him of her father, that foul bastard that took one look at him and asked just what he thought he was doing in his home. 

“Get some sleep,” Jesse says, with an air of finality that stops that conversation and that unsettling train of thought in its tracks. 

With that, Ashe rolls over, her back to him, and they say nothing more. 

With a touch of regret, he lets sleep take him. 

* * *

The next morning, he spends a good two hours out on their little range, shooting empty bottles borrowed from the bar and soda cans, setting them up further and further away until he’s aiming for little specks. 

Still hits them. Not a bullet wasted. 

He’s got good aim. Always has. 

And this meditative practice helps give him time to think over his next move. Call Gabriel Reyes again, try to throw him off. Or just forget it, work on selling off the guns and preparing for a fight, if one does come. 

The thing is, though,  _ selling _ the guns was never his part. His talent is out on the trains, dealing with the passengers, taking care of the guards, and hauling away crates of merchandise. Not with delicate business negotiations. That’s Ashe’s burden. 

So he’s really got nothing all that pressing to do.

It’s hell, is what it is. 

Maybe that’s why he’s thinking hard on just what he should say to Reyes, if— _ if— _ he calls him again. What he could say to throw him off, to get him to leave them alone, maybe even offer some other gang up in their place. 

What else is he gonna do?

When he finishes his time out on the range, he gathers up the spent casings in a little shoebox they use for just this, and carries them back inside, out to the garage where Barns is already set up at the worktable, scrutinizing a small pile of brass bullet casings. 

Barns hardly seems to notice him at first—they’ve got a bright white LED lamp illuminating their work space, a little casing held between their fingers, and they’re squinting at it suspiciously through an eyepiece, a little like the kind that jewelers use. 

Jesse raps his knuckles against the table.

Barns jumps, the eyepiece clatters to the table, and they look up at him, blinking. “Oh,” they say, blatantly confused. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

Jesse glances to the table again. 

There’s three boxes in all. One for casings good enough to reload, one for those too damaged that’ll be sold for scrap, and one for the ones that haven’t yet been categorized. 

The pile full of damaged casings is much taller than it was last night. The good ones, only marginally. 

“How long you been up?”

Barns picks the eyepiece up again and fits it back over their eye, lifting the casing up to the light again. “Not that long. An hour, maybe.”

“It’s eight in the mornin’, Barns.”

They pause, making a face, then set the casing in the reload pile. “Three hours, then.” They pick up another, and the cycle starts again. 

Barns doesn’t often have trouble sleeping—they’re lucky like that. So this feels.. odd. 

“You okay?”

“Fine,” they say flatly. “We’re low on ammo.” 

And they are—usually they can recycle a load of these, but if most of the casings they have are too damaged for it, they’ll need to resupply. And now isn’t a great time for that. 

“You need any help?” Jesse offers, and sets the casings that he’d brought in on the table. 

Barns glances up at him, entirely unimpressed. “You hate doing this.”

He shrugs. “Ain’t like I got much else to do around here.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Their face twists and they drop a casing into the scrap box and snatch up another one, scowling all the while. “Not in the mood for company.”

Jesse blinks at the sudden reaction. His stomach twists into knots as he wonders just what about that pissed them off so bad, when it’s true—he doesn’t have anything else productive to do. “You sure?”

“Just leave me alone, Jesse.” They stubbornly continue on with inspecting the casings. Not once looking up at him. 

Feeling like he’s just been slapped, Jesse leaves, quiet, unobtrusive, letting the door gently  _ click _ shut behind him. 

* * *

They’ve fought before. All of them have. For all the times it’s perfect harmony, when they’re hitting a train and it’s all adrenaline, instincts, no higher thought, and then in the hours afterwards when they’re riding the high of it, they get along fine. 

And other times, they argue. Never world ending, just arguing about the best plan, or normal stress that comes from running low on resources or things not going to plan. 

_ But.  _

The tension of the last two days has felt like a goddamn civil war. 

Barns clicks a pen too much. Ashe chews their head off for interrupting her train of thought. 

Jesse bumps into Marcela on his way out the door, makes her spill her drink. She curses him out, he swears right back at her, and she throws what’s left of her soda at him. 

They leave the news on. The radio, the TV, everywhere. There’s always someone lingering by it and listening close. As if it holds the key to their escape. Between updates on Overwatch and the situation in New Mexico, they hear obnoxious commercials and advertisements with stupid Christmas-themed jingles. 

It gets colder, as cold as it ever gets in New Mexico, really, barely forty degrees. They won’t get snow, they never do. 

Ashe considers using Christmas Eve as their day of escape. The highways won’t be so packed. They can speed right up to Colorado, see some snow for the first time. But they’ll also be the only ones out. 

After Christmas, they then suggest—everyone will be out, and they’ll be impossible to pick out of a crowd unless by sheer luck. But what happens if there’s a checkpoint? A traffic jam? What do they do then? Run for it?

Escape lingers at the forefront of their minds and they’ve given up on finding a buyer. No one is biting. They’ll just have to leave it behind. 

* * *

He’s running. He’s always running. Across a desert of golden sand, beneath a sky so blue it looks fake. You could fall into that blue. You could fall into it and never stop falling. 

His feet sink into the sand further and further with every step, exhaustion tearing away at him, pulling him down, whispering that it’s just too much, too much to bear. Take a break, it coaxes him. Rest your eyes. It’ll all be over soon. 

Wind whips into his face, sand embedding itself in his skin, and he slips right through the sand, no longer solid beneath him, drifting down, down, down. 

He lands on his back. Gun in his hand. He raises it and takes aim and pulls the trigger, but Carver—no, Eugene Brown—both of them keep coming, shambling towards him, like a man that’s already dead, dragging one foot across the ground, smiling that awful grimy smile with a head full of black rotting teeth, blood leaking from the holes in his head, covering him in it, all that red, all that crimson—

The glass shatters.

The gun fires. 

Jesse breaks the surface of his nightmares like a man drowning, tangled in his blanket and gasping for breath, hands clawing at his neck. 

The room comes into focus around him. Moonlight drifting through the blinds, across the wooden slats of his floor, soft and gentle. Pockmarked ceiling. His desk, his chair, with his belt draped over it. His gun, dark metal, shining in the moonlight. 

He is here. And he is safe. If only for now. 

His eyes drift over to the book on his bedside table, and he sits up, slides it over to himself and cracks open the pages. 

The business card is still pressed neatly within the weathered, yellow pages, an old copy that he imagines has gone through so many pairs of hands that have all left their mark. And there are marks—dog-eared pages, ink marks from annotations, a faded ring on the front cover that must have been left from a mug of coffee. Names written on the inside of the cover, including his own—a sloppy little  _ J. McCree. _ And some paragraphs and passages that have been marked with yellow highlighter. 

_ All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed. _

He skims over the passage, then goes back and reads it properly, absorbing each word, a bitter smile coming to his lips. 

It was a line that he adored when he was younger, but now, it’s his reality. And it’s far more terrifying than he could have ever known. 

He slips the card out and snaps the book shut, dropping it back onto the nightstand, and gets to his feet, heading for his dresser. Changes into a pair of jeans, hopping on one leg as he tries to fit into just slightly too small jeans—he’s still getting taller and he’s about damn tired of it—and finds his boots, shoving them on about as fast and as quiet as he can. And his coat, he nearly forgets. 

He sneaks out through the back door, the business card in his back pocket. Can’t hurt, can it? Can’t make it any worse than it already is. 

Jesse rides out to the city on his bike and he can breathe a little easier in the fresh air, though it feels nearly frozen in his lungs. If it feels this damn cold in New Mexico, how much worse will it be in Colorado?

He’s a summer kid. This cold—he’s tired of it. He wants the desert back, the heat radiating off the blacktop, being able to step outside without cursing and shivering. 

But nevertheless, he heads into the city, where buildings and trees are covered in string lights, neon signs glowing, advertisements for sales plastered on every storefront. 

It hits him with a jolt that Christmas Eve is tomorrow. It crept right up on him and he forgot all about it, with all this shit going on, and he’s.. lost that excitement he used to have. Christmas wasn’t ever anything fancy for him, no, but he still got a few gifts from whatever foster parents he was with—not Carver, of course not—and he’s spent Christmas with Ashe, Barns, Marcela for the last two years now. 

Those were far better than anything he’s had before. 

Now, it’s just running. 

Jesse shakes the thoughts away and pulls into a gas station, parks his bike around the side, and heads inside to buy a pack of cigarettes. 

It’s not the smartest plan he’s ever had. But he really doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Not anymore. Everything’s falling apart and he needs something, anything to keep his mind busy, so his hands won’t be idle. His head is aching for some kind of change of pace. 

He thanks the cashier and takes the spare change out around the side of the gas station, where the payphone is hidden away. 

Stupid plan. 

His  _ only _ plan. 

He feeds the change into the machine and holds that card up to the light and punches in those silver numbers, and it only just hits him. 

It’s one in the morning. No one’s gonna pick up, he’s wasted this whole trip, wasting his time and money and—

The phone gets to the second ring before someone picks up. “Hello?”

Not Gabriel Reyes. 

A kid, maybe, someone around his age, it sounds like, and he’s left standing there stupidly wondering if he dialed it wrong. 

“Is someone there?” The voice sounds distinctly annoyed, now.

“Is, uh—” Jesse clears his throat, his mouth dry. “Is Gabriel Reyes there?”

There’s a long sigh on the other end. “Is this a work thing?”

“Yeah.” It comes out apologetic, though he doesn’t mean for it. 

Another pause. “Is it really urgent?”

Jesse glances around the parking lot, empty. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Of fucking course it is,” the kid mutters, so quiet Jesse barely catches it, then they call out: “Dad, it’s for you!”

Jesse has to stop himself from laughing, pressing his fist to his mouth, and strains to hear anything else—his  _ kid _ answered the phone—why on earth is his kid answering his phone?

There’s a brief muffled exchange, something about promises, and apology, and then that familiar voice comes on. “This is Gabriel Reyes, who am I speaking to?”

“Nice kid,” Jesse says. How he’d love to see the look on his face. The surprise, maybe regret, maybe concern. 

“Jesse.” Reyes sounds amused, more than anything. “You’re calling pretty late. Can’t sleep?”

The tone makes him scowl. Why isn’t he more rattled by it? Why isn’t he afraid of him? “Why’s your kid answerin’ your phone?”

A soft sigh. “She thought it was hers.”

_ That  _ doesn’t sound entirely truthful, but he doesn’t know enough to call him on it. But there’s something else behind it. 

“How come you didn’t trace my call a week ago?” Jesse asks abruptly, almost accusing. He knows why, but he’s being seized by the urge to sound  _ adult, smart,  _ not like the scared kid that he thinks he is. 

Never mind the fact that he just admitted he stuck around to see. But that’s a perfectly normal thing, to time how long it takes for cops to show. He did it countless times for banks before they ever hit. 

It occurs to him then that  _ that’s  _ why Reyes didn’t sic the cops on him. Because he knew he’d be gathering intel, that he wasn’t going to get himself caught that easily. Not for some play at sympathy, at gaining trust. But a logical move. 

“Because you’re far too good to let yourself get arrested in a shopping mall.”

Flattering and threatening. He traced the call, but didn’t send the cops after him. 

Jesse pulls his coat tighter, wishing he’d brought gloves. It’s too cold for this, to keep this conversation going. It’s stupid to be out here. Praying that somehow he can find a way out. 

Because he had an excuse, that first time, trying to see how quick the Overwatch response time was, but this time. This time, he’s just scared. 

“Why’re you calling, Jesse?” His voice isn’t cruel, not in the slightest. It’s gentle, deceptively so. Like a parent. 

That’s all this is. Deception. A play for him to get Jesse to give in. 

“I want this to be over,” he says, sounding terribly brittle. He’s too tired for the bravado, the fake confidence. “Just leave us be, we won’t cause any more trouble. Promise.”

He hates himself for saying it. For giving in like this, even, for being so fucking weak, begging for a chance to just run away. Always running. 

“I can’t do that, Jesse.” Almost  _ remorseful,  _ now, and that stings just as much as pleading did. He doesn’t have to feel sorry for him, he doesn’t want his  _ pity.  _

Jesse leans his head against the payphone, in spite of how cold it is. Closes his eyes. One last try. One more attempt. “What’s her name?” He asks, quiet. “Your daughter?”

There’s a hesitation, but what can it hurt, really? How could Jesse possibly get himself in even more trouble?

“Mariana,” he replies. “She’s not much older than you, you know.”

“Mariana,” Jesse repeats. Almost his old name, the one no one calls him anymore. Reyes would know that. “You know, I got family, too. You already know their names, I bet. ‘Cause you’re visitin’ all our parents, aren’t you? And if you met our parents, then you—you know why we left. Gabriel, we—we didn’t have a choice.”

He’s laying it on thick, maybe. Trying to get some sympathy of his own, so maybe, just maybe, Reyes will take it easy. And then he can slip away before he even realizes it. 

There’s a quiet laugh on the other end of the line. “I don’t think so.”

Jesse’s heart drops into his stomach. 

“Running away from home, that’s understandable. Robbing a few gas stations, sure. But banks? Trains? Stealing military hardware to sell it off? You got ambitious. Greedy.” There’s another sigh. “This was always how it was going to end.”

Jesse doesn’t answer. He swallows the fear, the fury, rising up in his throat, and balls his hand into a fist. 

The payphone flashes a warning at him. He shoves more change into the machine, watches the timer add another two minutes to the call. 

Why he doesn’t let it run out, he doesn’t know. 

“Just leave us be,” he says, throat tight. “You keep this up, we’re gonna die out here.”

“You don’t have to.” A new urgency, one that cuts through the calmness of his voice. “Will you let me help you, Jesse?”

He’s not going to help him. They both know that. 

“How?” Still, he asks, still, he’s praying for something, anything.

“We talk in person. You pick where. I don’t bring any cops, you don’t bring any of your friends. No guns. And we figure out a way to get you out of this, safe.”

“You want me to surrender.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you want.”

A long sigh, followed by the creaking of a chair, maybe. “Yeah. I do want that.” His voice is full of something that’s hard to decipher, and Jesse’s stopped trying, anyways. “You’re just a kid. And you had a raw deal, and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t help that. I can only help you here and now. Please. Don’t get yourself killed trying to outrun this.”

Jesse takes a shaky breath. He keeps insisting, keeps playing the part of good cop. He’s not seen any bad cop yet. “Yeah, well. No promises.” 

With that, he hangs up. 

* * *

When he gets back to the Gorge, he slips back in just as quiet, but there’s something off. 

A muffled conversation behind a door, a yellow light slipping out beneath it. 

He pauses by it, listening in, though he knows he shouldn’t. 

“We’ve just got to be careful,” Ashe says, her voice low. “A lot more careful than we have been.”

“I know,” Marcela says. It’s hushed, like they’re hiding. Like they’re in trouble. They are, but why here? “I thought we could trust—”

Jesse steps closer and the floorboard creaks and he winces, because the two of them go dead silent. 

He raps his knuckles against the door. Might as well own up to it. He pushes open the door and it creaks the whole way, and there they are, Ashe and Marcela, looking up at him with blatant suspicion. 

“Y’all okay in here?” 

Ashe gives him a thin smile, then her eyes drop down to his boots, his jeans, and she looks back up at his face. “We’re fine. You goin’ somewhere?” 

“Just got back.” He pulls the pack of smokes from his coat pocket, waving it at them. “Headin’ back to bed, though.” 

Marcela’s staring at him in a way that he doesn’t really recognize. He can’t put his finger on it.

“Good night,” Ashe says pointedly. 

“Night,” he replies, glancing between the two of them and trying to place those awful looks they’re giving him, but he just steps back out, eases the door shut behind himself. 

Whatever that was, he’ll—figure it out tomorrow. Right now, he needs some rest. 

He slips back into his room and drops his boots back by his bed, though he doesn’t bother to change out of his jeans again. Collapsing back into bed, he barely remembers to press the business card back between the pages of  _ Watership Down  _ before sleep takes him back into its arms. 

No dreams, this time.

Or so he thinks. 

He’s ripped from sleep by a hand on his shoulder, another on his arm, yanking him up and off the bed. 

He hits the floor and he’s already swinging blindly—the moonlight that used to fill this room is gone, just shapes in the dark. A fist slams into his nose and he swears loudly, trying to cover it, but it’s just long enough for them to grab at his wrists and wrench his arms behind his back, and cold steel cuffs snap shut around his wrists. 

_ Get his phone, _ someone says.

Jesse spits and swears at them, kicking out, but he’s hauled to his feet by them, two, he thinks, dragging him out of his room. No, three. The other is walking behind him, following so very leisurely. Blood is starting to drip from his nose. 

“Make it a fair fuckin’ fight,” he spits, and they throw open another door—the garage—and he’s thrown to the cold cement floor, arms trapped beneath his body as he tries to twist and break out of the cuffs. 

The lights flicker on, ugly and yellow. “Let’s talk, Jesse.” 

He stills. Jesse looks up, his eyes still focusing, but there she is. White hair. Red lipstick. Her eyes filled with hate.  _ Ashe.  _

Jesse stares up at her, dumbstruck. “What..” 

Marcela comes into focus next to her, staring at him, and Barns—they won’t look at him, won’t meet his eyes. 

In Ashe’s hands is that worn old copy of  _ Watership Down,  _ and she casually flips it open, drawing her finger down the page and pulling that fucking business card out, black, with silver inked numbers that shine. She holds it up to the light between two fingers, shows it to Barns, to Marcela, and to him. 

“What is this, Jesse?” Her voice is so sweet. So fake. 

Jesse’s heart stops. He’s sure of it. He can barely breathe, just staring up at her, but he tries to reorient himself, pushing himself up to sit, but it’s rough, with his hands cuffed behind his back. “It ain’t—it ain’t what it looks like, Ashe.” Such a cliche line, but what else can he say?

“Oh?” Ashe meets his gaze, then nods to Marcela. 

Marcela hands her his phone, his goddamn phone, but he never called Reyes on that, he’d never put them in danger like that—

Ashe takes the phone and dials. Marcela steps away, over to his workbench. It’s dead silent in the garage, and Jesse can only stare, can only try to meet Barns eyes, ask them why, why,  _ why  _ they believe this, that he’d ever hurt any of them, but they refuse to even look in his direction. 

She puts the phone on speaker and stares straight into Jesse’s soul as it rings, her eyes narrow. 

He knows exactly what’s coming. 

The phone picks up on the fourth ring. “This is Gabriel Reyes,” he says, like he always does. “Who am I speaking to?”

No one says a word. They don’t have to. 

Because now it’s clear. 

_ Jesse sold them out. Jesse betrayed them. Jesse is a rat.  _

That’s what they think, at least. 

“Hello?” The voice of Gabriel Reyes echoes throughout the garage, so entirely oblivious to what he’s just done. To how he’s just damned him. 

_ I would never,  _ Jesse wants to plead, but he refuses to speak, not while they’re still on the line. 

The voice gets gentler. “Is that you, Jesse?”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin. 

He can hear Marcela’s footsteps behind him. How does he get out of this? How does he solve this problem? Fix this mess?

Jesse takes a breath to speak and before he gets the chance, he’s cracked  _ hard _ against the side of his head, sent straight to the cold cement floor once again, and he swears loudly. 

He looks up at Ashe, with the phone still in her hand, and he shakes his head. Blood starts to trickle from where he was hit, and he opens his mouth one more time—

Ashe gestures to Marcela, and Barns looks away, and something hard, metal, slams into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs.  _ “Please,” _ he wheezes. 

Reyes isn’t speaking anymore. He seems to have caught on. Thank fucking God. 

Ashe hangs up the phone and smiles. A bitter, angry smile, sharp and caustic, and she tosses the phone towards him. It clatters across the ground, slides to a stop a foot away from him. “What’d you tell him, Jesse?”

_ “Nothin’.”  _ It hurts to breathe, hurts to talk, like there’s a knife in his side. “I swear, I wouldn’t—” 

“Hit him again.” 

That metal thing slams into him once again and sends waves of pain through his body, and he shakes his head, eyes watering up. “I didn’t—I didn’t. Didn’t tell him—” He’s gasping for breath, now, trying to do some kind of math in his head while the needles of pain make it impossible to think, to breathe, to do anything. 

Ashe—she called Reyes, but she knows—they’ll trace it. They’ll trace the call. So why—the Gorge—

_ Distraction.  _

They’re so far out, takes—maybe fifteen, twenty minutes for cops to show. Maybe sooner, for the Deadlock Gang.

Ashe kneels down in front of him, with that same angry smile. “You make a deal? Is that what happened? You hand all of us over, you get a shorter sentence? After you killed that poor fuck, that’s what you needed, huh?”

“I wouldn’t,” he wheezes. “Never. I swear—”

She scoffs and straightens up, reaching for something—

A crowbar. A fucking crowbar. 

She’s going to beat him with a—

Jesse  _ laughs, _ and it fucking  _ hurts _ , but that’s the only way he can process this absolute absurdity. That Ashe, of all people, is going to hurt him. 

“How does he know your name?” She asks it so cordially, sweetly. But with that razor sharp edge beneath her words. 

“I called—twice.” He shuts his eyes and tries to block out the pain, but he can feel his ribs creak and groan with every breath. “Just—to figure it out.”

“To make a deal, you mean.”

_ “No deal,” _ he grits out. “I ain’t—stupid, Ashe, I—” He tries to sit himself up again, fight against the pain, but—

The crowbar pulls back and she slams it into his chest, and something cracks, some  _ things _ crack, and the pain is so fucking awful that everything goes white for a split second, and he wonders if it wouldn’t just be easier to lie and say he did. 

No. She’ll still beat him to death. 

“We were in this  _ together, _ ” she hisses. “All of us. And you were going to  _ throw it away!” _

Another crack of pain and Jesse’s head hits the ground, and he stays there, and he wants to curl in on himself but he won’t, he won’t show weakness like that. Even now.

“Ashe,” Barns says quietly. 

She whirls on them, fury in every tiny twitch of her muscles. “Oh, you want a turn, do you?” She gestures back to Jesse with the crowbar, bitter laughter bubbling up. “Go on, he’s lied to  _ all _ of us.”

Their eyes drop down to meet Jesse’s, so much guilt he wonders why they’re not  _ doing something.  _ “We ought to get goin’,” they say. Not taking a side. Not standing up for him, against him. Just as good as beating him, as far as Jesse’s concerned. 

Ashe’s voice is cold. “Go get the truck runnin’. We’ll be right behind you.” 

Barns looks at all of them, their mouth open, as if to say something. But they don’t. They close their mouth, and nod, and walk right out of the garage without a second glance at Jesse, lying on the ground and unable to breathe. 

Jesse is bait. That is what he is. 

Because regardless of whether or not he’s a rat, if they leave him here, wounded, dying, dead, this is where the cops will be. They will not be on the highway, not for a little while longer. 

And the Deadlock Gang, minus one Jesse McCree, will escape, and live to rob another day. 

“Go on and join them.” Ashe nods to Marcela, who hasn’t said one word to Jesse, but he can feel that hate in her eyes. 

She believes it. She really thinks that he would do this to them, to save his own skin. Did she ever really know him?

Marcela leaves without a word. 

It is now only him and Ashe, and he can barely breathe, much less plead his case one more time. It won’t do any good, either. 

Ashe runs a hand through her hair, her own breathing shaky, and she drops the crowbar. It clatters noisily to the cement floor, and she presses the heels of her palms against her eyes. “God fuckin’  _ damn _ it, Jesse.”

Jesse shuts his eyes again. He can’t take this, the waiting in suspense to see what she’ll do. Just get it over with. 

“Why’d you have to do this? Why’d you have to be so stupid?”

“I didn’t do—a goddamn thing,” he rasps, the pain sharp in his chest. His ribs are broken, must be. This is worse than when he got shot, so much worse. 

“Just fuckin’  _ admit it _ already,” she snaps. “Quit lyin’ to me. For once. Tell the fuckin’ truth.”

“Smart of you.” Jesse laughs, a horribly weak and awful sound, pain racking his body. “Get the cops here—you all can slip out. I’m—the bait. I get it.” 

“You—” Ashe fumes, her hands clenching into fists. “You did this to yourself.”

He laughs again. It’s a silent kind of laugh, now, but it hurts just as bad. Jesse rests his cheek against the cool ground, his eyes closed. This is it. End of the line. “Get outta here, Ashe.”

There’s the distinct sound of her pulling back the hammer of a gun and Jesse’s eyes snap right back open. 

She’s pointing his own goddamn gun at him, both hands on the grip. Trembling, almost. 

Jesse swallows his fear. Better this than getting arrested, right? Better a bullet to the head than a slow death here, waiting for the cops to show. “Go on,” he whispers. “Finish it.”

Ashe’s eyes are tearing up but her finger is on the trigger, and all it would take is a twitch, just the slightest lapse in judgement, and he—

He—

“Fuck you, Jesse.” She lowers the gun and gives a quiet sort of hitched breath, and she flips the cylinder out and the bullets sprinkle to the ground,  _ plink, plink, plink,  _ and she tosses his gun away. 

And she spins on her heel, and she walks out the door, slamming it shut behind her. 

Jesse finally lets himself curl up, but that proves to be a mistake, too, because his ribs desperately protest against it, knives of pain twisting in his chest. Will this kill him? He doesn’t know, and he especially doesn’t know if he should hope it will—he can get out of this. He can escape. He can run and hide and survive, he’s done it before, but now—

He’s alone. 

The phone is a few feet away from him, but his hands are behind his back, and moving at all hurts, but he can call—who? His mother? What will she do? 

If he calls an ambulance, that just puts him into prison all the sooner. 

He’s bait. He’s here to distract the cops. 

Distantly, he can hear the engine of their truck, the one he’d spent so long fixing up, racing away. 

Fine. 

Slowly—so, so slowly—he starts to twist, pulling his legs and knees up, trying to get his hands in front of him—the pain forces him to stop, bringing tears to his eyes. He can let them fall, now, no worries about being seen. 

Jesse shifts himself, cautious, dragging himself closer to the phone lying facedown on the ground. 

It takes time, but he manages it. Now, he grabs at it behind his back, scrabbling for it against the cement, and finds it at last. Just need to dial—one more time. 

He can get to the recent calls, and there’s only one, and he has to hold the phone at the most awkward angle, looking over his shoulder and twisting his arms and trying not to scream at the pain, the utter uselessness of it all. 

But he gets it. He falls back to the ground, just trying to breathe, waiting to hear him pick up. Please, please pick up. 

He does. And he doesn’t bother with his usual greeting. “Jesse?”

Jesse nearly sobs with relief. The first time he’s ever been happy to hear his voice, and probably the last time. “You—” He takes a shuddering breath. “Said you wanted to—help me.”

“I do. Are you okay? Are you safe?”

“Please—” His breathing is much more labored, now, and he feels like maybe something’s a little more wrong than it should be, but what’s he going to do about it? Fucking nothing. 

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m done.” His voice sounds so frail, weak. “Come and get me.” 

Jesse coughs, an ugly, wet, hacking cough, and tastes blood on his tongue. Wonderful. Really, truly, fucking wonderful. He presses his forehead to the cold ground, seeking some small relief from it. 

“Where are you?” There’s sounds of movement on the other end, a car door slamming shut, keys jingling. 

Jesse takes a breath to speak and winces. “The—Gorge. There’s an old motel—blue paint—” He’s trying not to breathe too hard, but then his lungs are screaming for oxygen, and then he feels every broken rib straining against his lungs, and the pain is so bad he can’t even pass out to escape from it. 

“What happened?” The engine starts. He’s driving. He’s close enough to drive over here. 

He wonders if he’s already told the cops, or if Ashe went ahead and called in an anonymous tip. Just to be sure. 

Jesse doesn’t answer him. Hurts too much. 

“You still there?”

“Mm.” He’s so goddamn tired. “Mhm.”

“Stay awake, Jesse. I’ll be there soon.” He actually sounds worried, which makes a little sense, he supposes. Can’t have him bleeding out before he gets the arrest. 

It’s hard to decide what’s better. Dying here, now, or a lifetime in a cell. 

“I can’t—go to prison.” He forces the words out, because he  _ has _ to tell him, he has to figure this out. There has to be another way. Has to be. “I’m not gonna—I can’t—” 

Jesse can’t finish the thought. A cough rips through his throat and a wet glob of red splatters against the cement in front of him, and he can taste the blood, oozing down his throat like slime, so fucking disgusting—

“It’s all gonna be okay, Jesse. But right now, I need to know what happened.” 

A lie. A comforting one, though. If he really wanted to, he could let himself believe it, that everything will turn out okay. 

“Ribs,” he mumbles. He swallows the rest of his explanation, along with the blood creeping up his throat, and tries again to get out of the cuffs. 

Careful, slow movements. Dragging his thumb along the cold metal, finding the lock. Could he pick it? Even if he could find something, his head feels cloudy, his movements sluggish. 

Outside, there’s the faint sound of sirens. Growing louder and louder and louder. Closer and closer and closer. Of course she called them.  _ Of course.  _

He saw something once, about dislocating your thumb to slip out of cuffs. Could he? 

Where’s he even gonna go if he does get out of them? Hurts to breathe, let alone trying to run. 

“Still with me?” 

Car doors are opening, slamming shut. There’s muffled voices. 

“You—here?” Jesse looks around the garage, for something, anything—his gun, lying among the scattered bullets. 

“Almost there, Jesse. A few more minutes.”

So it’s just cops out there. 

Bad. Bad. So fucking bad, his brain can’t think of anything, just latching onto the sight of the blue and red lights flashing through the closed blinds, his heart kicking up, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—

_ “We have you surrounded,” _ a voice says through a megaphone, and Jesse wants to scream his frustration, pound his fist against the floor and have a temper tantrum.  _ “Come out with your hands up.” _

“You gotta do what they say, Jesse.” He’s trying to sound gentle, but there’s almost a tinge of worry in his words, and it only heightens Jesse’s terror. 

“Can’t,” he wheezes. “Can’t—I can’t—” Even if he wanted to, even if he wasn’t terrified, he can barely move.

Just need to waste time. Just need to wait until Reyes gets here, then—then he’ll trust him. Just Reyes. 

“I have—a gun!” He yells out, but his voice is so weak, he doesn’t even know if they heard him. He clears his throat, spits blood, tries again.  _ “I have a gun!” _

“Jesse,” Reyes warns.

It doesn’t matter. He starts to inch himself over to his gun, slow, smearing blood as he goes, his breath hitching with each shock of pain. 

Waste time. Waste time so Reyes gets here, and—waste time so the three of them can get out. He’s their bait, fine, he’ll play the fucking part and hope that they get out safe. Even if they wouldn’t do the same for him.

“Listen to me, Jesse. You have to do as they ask, and then we can talk.” 

He’s just ignoring him now, rather than waste breath trying to explain this horribly precarious situation. “Don’t—come any closer!” He calls again, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. “I’ll shoot!”

Once he gets his fucking gun. 

One more time. One more time. He tries again to get his hands in front of himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, curled up so tight it hurts. 

The steel cuffs cut into his wrists as he does, already so tight around them, blood hot and slick on his wrists, but it’s close—so close—

Finally, he gets his hands in front of himself, and he wipes the blood from his mouth, tears finally starting to fall. “I’m—only talkin’—to you. That’s it.”

“I need you to understand this. You are putting yourself in more danger, for what?”

For them. For Deadlock. What’s left of it. 

He wouldn’t understand that. 

Another car door slams shut, but this time it’s through the phone. And outside. He’s here. 

Jesse’s hands wrap around the gun and he forces the cylinder out. The bullets are scattered, and he reaches for them clumsily, scraping one or two closer to him to shakily start loading the revolver. “Call ‘em off. I only—wanna talk to you.” 

Faster, faster, but his fingers aren’t as nimble as he remembers, trembling as he shoves each bullet into its rightful place. 

There’s no reply over the phone, not for a long while, and Jesse wonders if Reyes hung up and he didn’t realize it. 

“Will you let me come in?” His voice finally breaks the frantic silence, just as calm as he must always be. “Is that okay?”

Jesse snaps the cylinder back into place, then starts to drag himself back again, so he can get his back to the wall, get a good look at the door. “Fi—fine.” The pain in his chest is growing, a pressure, like something’s tearing at the walls of his body trying to escape, and it’s getting harder to breathe. “Back door. Down the—the hall, the white door.”

He raises the gun, though his aim is shaky. Just need to waste time. 

“Are you going to shoot me, Jesse?” His voice is tinny through the phone, quiet, now that it’s laying halfway across the garage. 

Jesse doesn’t answer. Is he?

“I hope not,” he replies.  _ Please don’t make me.  _

They don’t say anything else. Neither of them. But there are footsteps that Jesse hears, the creaking of the hardwood floor, closer and closer. The door handle turns, slowly, and there stands Gabriel Reyes, hardly more than a silhouette, the hallway lights behind his head wreathing him in gold like a halo, like some kind of angelic monster come to take him away. 

“Oh, Jesse,” he says softly, his eyes burning into him. The blood, the cuffs, the gun. So many eyes, like glowing coals. Embers in a dying fire. 

Jesse raises the gun, hands shaking with the effort, the chain of his handcuffs jingling with the movement. “You—got a gun?”

Reyes pulls his coat back, showing the absence of a sidearm, and Jesse wonders why he would be so stupid to trust him. 

Because Jesse doesn’t have any choice, of course. If he kills him, he guarantees his own death. If not now, it’ll be a firing squad. Or a noose, one he’ll tie himself. 

Still. What a gamble. 

“Put the gun down, Jesse.” Reyes slowly moves towards him, one step at a time, like he’s dealing with a cornered animal. 

Just to spite him, Jesse cocks the gun, his finger hovering over the trigger. 

Reyes goes still. 

“I—want—out,” Jesse manages, every word bringing a new spark of pain. Blood is still climbing up his throat, and he has to turn his head away and cough, awful and ugly and filthy, spots and speckles of red spilling across the cement. It dribbles from his lips and he wipes it away angrily with his shoulder. 

Reyes’s eyes follow him the whole while. Always watching. “I called for an ambulance,” he says calmly. “You’ll be on it, either way, but I’d rather you were still breathing.”

“I can’t,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I won’t—I won’t last a month—in prison—” It’s harder and harder to breathe, air dragging through his throat like a sawblade through bone. 

Another step closer. “You can.” His voice is so gentle, and it’s that moment Jesse remembers that he’s a father—he wonders how many times he’s had this conversation with his daughter about something far stupider, lower stakes, about homework or prom or midterms and all the things he ran away from. “You’re a fighter, Jesse. A survivor.”

“I don’t want to  _ survive.” _ He gives a sharp, bitter laugh, that just as soon turns into a gasp for breath. “I want—to  _ live.” _

Reyes considers that. For what feels like forever, he considers it, head cocked to the side. “Prison,” he finally says, “is not where your story ends.” Another foot forward. 

_ “Liar.”  _ He’s full of shit—just trying to end this. 

“I haven’t once lied to you.” Reyes steps forward, now towering over him, until he takes a knee, settling in at eye level. The shaking barrel of the gun is hardly three inches from his forehead. “You have to trust me, Jesse.” 

_ Trust me, _ he’s saying,  _ like I trust you. _

What a  _ fucking _ gamble. 

“Then where—” he wheezes, a sort of wet, crackling sound—“does my story end?”

“You’re quick. You’re clever. And you’re ambitious. You’re suited to this line of work. Why not continue it?” Reyes sets his hand on the barrel of the gun and eases it out of Jesse’s grasp, and he’s too caught up in processing his words to resist it. 

The gun is set to the side, gentle. 

Jesse’s head feels light, mind spinning around like he’s drunk, and he’s not entirely sure he heard Reyes correctly. 

“Come work with me,” he says, holding his gaze. “Do what you do best. And save the world while you’re at it.” Reyes takes his hands, looking down for just a moment, and Jesse follows his line of sight to watch him unlock the cuffs. They fall away, clattering to the ground. 

Of all the things rushing through his mind, Jesse latches onto one that keeps slamming against the walls of his skull. “No cell?”

“No cell,” he confirms. “No prison. A base, with a dormitory, where you’ll live with the other agents when you’re not on missions.”

“Agents,” Jesse echoes. An absolutely baffling word that he would never apply to himself, but—but—

“Think on it,” he murmurs. “There’s no need to decide right now. But you need to get in that ambulance.” 

“I—” An Overwatch agent. He’s seventeen, though, is that even legal? Is that—

Blood comes rising up his throat once more and he nearly doubles over, coughing and hacking, and this time it doesn’t stop, so much blood, hot and wet and slick and angry and he’s grabbing desperately at Reyes’s coat to steady himself, everything spinning around him—

Then Reyes is shouting something. Then Jesse’s weightless, but so heavy, holding tight to that thick black coat, blood thick on his tongue. 

Then he’s falling. His head lolls over and he sees Reyes waving off a cop, stepping up into the ambulance.  _ I’m staying with him, _ he says, and that’s all it takes. 

Jesse watches the white ceiling, and he notices the heads of paramedics ducking around and doing whatever it is that paramedics must do, though he doesn’t pay very much attention to it until he sees a needle so big it’s almost comical.

_ Look at me, _ Reyes says, and Jesse does, shortly before there’s a sharp pain in his side and he can yell and swear and most importantly  _ breathe,  _ taking in great gasping breaths. Chest heaving and rolling like the tumultuous sea, or what he imagines the waves might be like, had he ever seen them. Crashing and storming and slamming into him with the weight of a thousand millennia. 

_ You’re okay, _ he says. There’s a hand on his and he lets his eyes fall shut, the bustle of bodies moving around the space fading away. 

He’s okay. 

The world floats by in white, and he’s content to let it. 

He wonders if he’s been drugged. 

Probably. 

Bodies brush past and there’s little pricks of pain, air still not coming quite so easily. 

It all fades, though. Eventually. A nice sort of fog that blankets him, and pulls him close, and eases him back to sleep. 

* * *

_ Hell, _ he aches. 

Consciousness comes slowly, on and off. The only constant is the thudding pain that dances across his skin, bruises and cuts and lungs that still resist him. 

He blinks awake and sees white, white, white. Silver tools and equipment and a TV up in the corner, vague shapes and colors on the screen. Sunlight filtering in through the windows. 

He blinks again and the shadows have grown longer, darker, the dim buzz of the TV chattering away. An annoying beeping beside him—a heart monitor. 

Once more, and there’s no more sunlight. Just faint fluorescents, dimmed, enough light to make out the shape sitting in the chair beside him. 

It’s been there the whole time, he thinks. A blur of black. Jesse turns his head to look at it and it sharpens into focus, a figure, sitting with a newspaper in front of him, a pen in his hand. 

Gabriel Reyes. Again. 

He looks tired. Bags under his eyes, his coat draped over the chair next to him, and he idly marks the page. The pen scratches quietly. 

TV’s still on, too. Basketball, he sees now. He’s never really understood the game and never cared to. 

“Change the channel,” Jesse mumbles. 

Reyes looks up, an eyebrow raised. His eyes go from Jesse, up to the TV, and he cracks the slightest of smiles. “I’m watching that, you know.” 

“Yeah, well, fuck you.” Jesse reaches for the remote on the side table, but his wrist catches—on a cuff. A silver handcuff, chaining him to the side of the bed. Right. 

He wonders, for a moment, if it’s the same pair of cuffs that Ashe put on him. The same pair of cuffs that left rings of bruises and scabs around his wrists, in his frantic attempt at a plan. 

“Sorry.” Reyes leans over and picks up the remote, hands it to him. “Worried you might make a run for it.” 

“Probably would’ve,” Jesse admits. He looks up at the TV again and just starts flicking through the channels, swallowing the lump in his throat. Focus on the small things, just what’s right in front of him. Pretend he doesn’t care. Don’t think about how his life is over. 

“How long’s it been?” He asks anyway, because he can’t help it. He needs to know everything he can, and then he can come up with a plan, and then—

_ Come work with me, _ he’d said. How much of that was genuine?

“You were out most of the day.” Reyes folds up his newspaper and sets it on the side table, the pen set neatly on top, and clasps his hands together, looking intently at Jesse. “You had four ribs broken. One punctured your lung and caused a collapse; that’s where the blood came from. You also had a minor concussion and a broken nose. You went into surgery this morning for the ribs, so you’re all set on that front. All in all, it’s been—” He checks his watch. “About nineteen hours since we last talked.”

Jesse touches his hand to his chest, feeling the stitches beneath his fingertips, through the thin hospital gown. Surgery. He’s never had any surgery before. And he slept the whole day away. 

“What time is it?” He glances around for a clock, but there’s not one anywhere. 

“Quarter past midnight.” 

Jesse sits up, but he’s snagged by a tube in his side that he hadn’t noticed—fucking hell, how many painkillers is he on? A thin little tube filled with red leading to some device on the floor, planted squarely between his ribs. 

Draining the blood in his lungs, he realizes. 

“Quarter past midnight,” he mumbles. “Then it’s Christmas, ain’t it?”

Reyes smiles. A small, faint thing. Barely a quirk of his lips. “I guess it is.”

Jesse drops back against the bed and sighs heavily, looking up at the TV again. He’d landed on some holiday movie, it looked like, white snow coating a sleeping suburb. He tosses the remote back on the table and rubs his face, runs his hands through his hair. 

What happens now?

“How come you ain’t with your family?” He’s too scared to ask his first question, so he beats around the bush a little longer. And maybe gets a chance to figure out what kind of man Gabriel Reyes is. If he can really trust him. “You spend all of Christmas Eve with a—with me?”

Reyes gives him an amused smile. “I’m Jewish, actually.”

Jesse’s face starts to burn with embarrassment. Not just the stupid assumption—but the thought that he’d assumed he’d want to spend a holiday with some delinquent instead of his actual kid. “Oh. Sorry.”

Reyes waves his hand dismissively. “Trust me, you’re not the first. Either way, I wanted to be here when you woke up.” 

“Why?”

It’s quick, but Jesse catches it—Reyes’s eyes flick towards the door, then to the empty chair beside him. 

Because no one else would be, he realizes. 

Awful fucking nice of him. 

“So what happens now?” He barrels on past that subject as quick as he can—he doesn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him. 

Reyes nods to the tube in his side. “About three days before they take that thing out. No permanent damage, but your ribs are gonna hurt like hell for a while. Doctors tell me it’ll be about four, five days before you’re free to go.” 

“Free to go,” Jesse repeats. He looks down at his wrists, rubbing at the dark bruises left there with a bitter smile on his face. “Free to go where, Gabriel?”

“Well, that’s up to you, Jesse.” Reyes’s eyes burn into him, like they always do. He can feel his stare, as if he’s seeing his very soul. “You can go to prison. Or you can come with me up to the Watchpoint in Colorado, so you can start your training.” 

Colorado. He nearly laughs—of course he’d end up there. He’ll be barely three hundred miles from them, won’t he? Assuming they’ve not gone even farther north. Or abandoned that plan altogether. They thought Jesse was a rat. 

“So you meant all that?”

“Every word.”

Jesse stares at him, his eyes narrow. There’s a catch. There’s got to be. Why would he offer this to him? “I’m only seventeen,” he says. “Is that legal?”

“Funny thing,” Reyes replies. “When I went looking for your files, they had a bit of a problem with their computer system, after all the drama of the Crisis. They switched back to paper files, for fear of losing their computer systems, and since then, a few files just.. got lost in the system. Yours was one of them. No one even noticed until I went digging.” He leans forward slightly, his eyes intent, and gives him a small smile. “Remind me, Jesse, how old are you again?”

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

“Eighteen,” he says slowly, feeling a smile of his own coming on. “I’m eighteen years old.” 

“Of course.” Reyes leans back in his seat, his eyes shining. “How could I forget?”

Jesse does laugh, then—incredulously. This is an option? No prison, no cell, no orange jumpsuit. “So if I join Overwatch—”

“Blackwatch,” he corrects. 

Blackwatch? The fuck is that? Jesse’s eyes narrow. “What’s the difference?” 

“The difference,” Reyes says, leaning forward again and lowering his voice, “is that we do the real work. Everything that needs to happen for the world to keep turning, that’s Blackwatch. Overwatch is just glorified PR guys for us.” 

“Why do you need PR so bad? Ain’t you the good guys?” His words have a little more bite than intended, a little more sarcasm and distrust. He’s dancing around the question, not telling him exactly what it is. 

“You could’ve used some good PR, you know. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten arrested.”

“Cut the shit and tell me the truth.”

Reyes sighs, but there’s a smile behind it, and he tilts his head. “We’re covert ops. We do the work that people don’t want to hear about, using methods that no one likes to condone. No one wants to know the means; only the end result. And the end result is that the world is safer.”

Covert ops. So covert that he didn’t even know ‘Blackwatch’ existed. 

Maybe that’s better. Overwatch, with all its smiling faces on every poster, those obnoxious blue uniforms, the awards ceremonies—he already knows he wouldn’t have cared for it. 

But Blackwatch.. 

“Can I change my mind?” Jesse looks back up at him, at his quiet smile. “If I pick one and—and later, I realize I made a mistake. Can I go back?” Back to prison. Or to Blackwatch. 

It’s not even a choice, is it?

“You’ll have to sign an NDA, but yes. If at any time you realize this work isn’t for you, you can leave.”

He sounds so damn official about it, too. 

“Let me think about it,” Jesse finally answers. Rot in a cell or give his life away to—what, the military? The same guys he’s been screwing over for the last two years?

And before, he thought.. well, if he went to prison, if any of them went to prison, the other three would break them out within the month. 

Except they won’t. 

Not this time. 

“You’ve got time,” Reyes says gently. “There’s no rush. But when the doctors say you’re fit to leave, it’s either prison or Colorado.”

“That sounds like an ultimatum.”

“You’ve got five days to sit around and relax. Does that bother you?”

Jesse raises his cuffed wrist, shaking it so the chain jingles loudly and obnoxiously. “Yeah, a little.”

His smile turns sympathetic. “I know.” 

Jesse rolls his eyes and looks back at the TV, though he barely sees it. Just shapes and colors. Five days to decide on the rest of his life. Maybe four, if he’s unlucky. 

“You gonna tell me what happened to you?” Reyes’s voice calls his attention once more, and he meets his eyes, feeling the creak and groan of the broken ribs in his chest. “Or who did this to you?”

Jesse looks away. He rubs his wrists, still feeling the ache. “No.”

They called him. They didn’t exactly give themselves away, but they called him. And let him hear. 

Reyes and anyone else with half a brain could figure it out. 

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” His voice is gentle, and Jesse decides right away that he doesn’t like it. “Whoever they are, they can’t get to you here.”

Jesse scoffs at him. “I ain’t  _ scared.  _ And I ain’t a fuckin’ snitch, either.”

Reyes leans back, raising both his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. My mistake.”

Jesse glares for another moment, then looks down again, tracing his fingers over the cuff. If he’d wanted to—if he’d really wanted to, he could’ve killed them. All three of them. 

Would he have? If he knew they were going to do that?

He’s not sure he wants to know. 

“I, uh—” Reyes grabs his attention once more, and pulls something out from beneath his coat. “Managed to snag this out of the evidence locker.” He holds it out to him. A book. 

Jesse takes it, but he recognizes those yellowed pages, worn cover, before he even needs to look at the title. His stupid copy of  _ Watership Down.  _ “How’d you know it was mine?” He flips through the pages, but the book falls open to where he’d been hiding the business card. It’s gone, now, of course. Probably left on the floor of the garage. 

“You wrote your name on it.” 

Jesse flips to the front cover, and yeah, there it is, his messy scrawl of  _ J. McCree _ in the corner. “Thanks. I guess.” He runs his fingertips over the spine and has to take a deep breath, swallow the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah, well. Merry Christmas, right?” Reyes gives him a wry smile. 

“Happy Hanukkah?” Jesse offers uncertainly, with the sudden realization that he has no idea when Hanukkah even is. 

He laughs quietly, a genuine sound, not mocking like he’d expected. “That was a few weeks ago. But thank you, Jesse.”

There’s the sound of a phone buzzing. Reyes looks down and pulls it out, checking something, then sighs. “Duty calls.” He stands, scooping up his coat, and lingers there, looking down at him. “Try to get some rest, if you can. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Jesse meets his eyes. Warm and dark and a little foreboding, he thinks. “And what am I supposed to do?” 

Reyes pulls his coat on, checks his phone once more. “Bring you some crossword puzzles tomorrow, how about that?” 

“Fuck off.” Jesse scoffs at him and flips open the book, skimming over the pages again. Countless paragraphs and passages highlighted in bright yellow. 

“Sudoku, then.” Reyes flashes him a shitty smile, then nods to the book in his hands. “I’ll see you, Jesse.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” Jesse doesn’t look up at him again, even as the door closes and Reyes is gone. He’s alone. Again. 

He flips through the pages, in the absence of anything else to do. And the light here is dim, but there’s enough to see the words. He squints to read them. 

_ Here is a boy who was waiting to be punished. But then, unexpectedly, he finds that his fault has been overlooked or forgiven, and at once the world reappears in brilliant colors, full of delightful prospects. Here is a soldier who was waiting, with a heavy heart, to suffer and die in battle. But suddenly the luck has changed. There is news! The war is over and everyone bursts out singing! He will go home after all! The sparrows in the plowland were crouching in terror of the— _

Jesse slams the book shut and throws it into the chair where Reyes had been sitting, then immediately regrets it, because now he’s cuffed to the bed and can’t fucking reach it. 

He yanks against the chain once, twice, as if it’ll give. 

That’s when the tears come, unbidden. A sharp sob comes tearing out of him and Jesse just lets it, wiping tears away angrily with the back of one hand because the other can’t reach his cheeks, and he can’t breathe, all over again, he can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care. Knives dig into his chest and he doesn’t care, not one bit. 

He wants to be sick. He wants someone to come back in and lie to him and tell him it’s all going to be okay, but all he can do is cover his mouth and try not to cry so loud they hear him out in the hall. 

They tried to kill him. They tried to kill him and they very nearly did, and now—and now—

Sit and wait and do nothing for the rest of his miserable life or go work for the very people he spat on, the one who dragged him here—

Like a game of  _ would you rather,  _ he thinks, when both options are so terrible that you can’t even answer, so horrified by the prospect of either of them. 

They tried to kill him. 

And they did. 

* * *

The next few days pass far too quickly and far too slowly. Much of it, he’s left to his own devices in his room, flipping through the TV channels to find more and more Christmas movies, and now, oddly, he’s a little annoyed he can’t find any Hanukkah movies. He knows the basics, he thinks. Light candles and give gifts on each day. But there’s gotta be more to it than that, and he’s not got an internet connection to look anything up, so. Shitty Christmas movies it is. 

Reyes makes good on his promise, the bastard. He drops off a book of crossword puzzles and another for sudoku and another goddamn book for word searches, and Jesse’s absolutely exhausted by all of them and too proud to admit that he’s too dumb to finish them. 

He picks at the price tag stickers on the covers and peels them off, then slaps them onto the guardrail of the bed. Reyes makes a face at him when he does, so he does it again and again, just to annoy him. 

Reyes hangs around sometimes. No more than an hour, usually, before his phone starts chirping and he’s gotta deal with some emergency or another. When he is there, Jesse bothers him so much with questions about the crosswords that he might as well hand the pencil and book over, but he doesn’t. 

“‘A sense of resolution or conclusion,’” Jesse reads off, like he’s been doing for the past half hour. 

Reyes doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “How many letters?” 

Jesse counts, tapping the pencil against each square. “Seven.”

There’s a pause, a quiet  _ hm, _ and Jesse’s always convinced he’s looking it up on his phone, but his answer is too quick for that to be the case. “Closure.”

“Thanks.” He pencils it in, each letter made ugly from the way he’s forced to hold the book at an odd angle. Cuffs still haven’t come off. 

The sudoku, he slowly warms up to. It’s a little satisfying to fill in all the squares, and he’s got time to kill, so he doesn’t mind having to erase his markings and start over again. 

The nurse tells him how to do some coughing and breathing exercises, which hurt like hell, and he says so. He gets a sympathetic laugh in reply and some bullshit about how he’s got to be miserable now so he can be healthy later. 

He asks for smokes and gets a firm  _ no, _ more than a few times, and he’s starting to get a headache from the withdrawal of it. 

Someone comes in and asks about his medical history while Reyes is there, and he has to answer  _ I don’t know _ to nearly every question—

“Any history of addiction in your family?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters again, sinking further and further down into the thin mattress. “Didn’t know ‘em.”

The nurse gives an awkward sympathetic smile like she doesn’t know what to say, and Jesse doesn’t really care. 

Sleep is fitful and he’s never had a functioning circadian rhythm in his life, so he’s up at random hours and taking long naps in the middle of the day. 

About once a day, he gets to take a walk down the hall, which is a nice change from lying around in bed for hours on end. It’s for the sake of his lungs, of course, but he appreciates the opportunity to stretch his legs. 

And he gets to stare down the cop on duty outside his room when Reyes isn’t around, which is always fun, because they’ll either squirm in silence or glare right back at him. But they can’t do a damn thing to touch him now. 

He has nightmares, which are fun, because he wakes up to the heart monitor screaming like he’s dying and a whole team of doctors or nurses or whoever coming in to make sure he’s still alive and well, plus a few cops convinced he’s trying to escape. 

Reyes isn’t ever there, but he’d be stupid to think they wouldn’t tell him about it. 

“You sleeping okay?” He asks, on day four. It’s casual, like he’s not prying for information. 

“Fine.” Jesse flips the page over to a new crossword. “Six letter word for a criminal.”

Reyes gives him a pointed look. “Jesse.”

“No, that don’t fit,” Jesse replies, as if he’s overly distracted with the puzzle, though he’s more avoiding his eyes. 

“Jesse.” 

He finally looks up at him, sighing. “What?”

Reyes leans forward in his seat, his phone forgotten on the side table. Jesse could grab it, if he wanted. “If you’re having trouble, there are people you can talk to. Doesn’t have to be me. But I think—”

“I’m not talkin’ to a shrink.” Jesse looks back at his book and pencils in O-U-T-L-A-W, looking to the next word. “Ten letter word for ‘the action of saving or being saved from sin or evil.’”

Reyes still pushes, though. “I think that, given what you’ve been through, it would be helpful—”

“How’s your daughter doin’?” Jesse asks abruptly, staring him down. “She seemed pretty annoyed you had to go back to work. That happen often?” 

Reyes stills. After a beat, he opens his mouth to say something else, but Jesse gets there first. 

“Is that why you got divorced?” He smiles, still intent on pushing in the knife. “‘Cause you ain’t wearin’ a wedding ring. And if they died, you’d be wearin’ it as a necklace or somethin’, it wouldn’t be gone altogether.”

It’s a guess. Maybe a risky one. But based on how Reyes isn’t saying anything, he must’ve hit the nail right on the head. 

“Redemption,” he finally says. 

“What?” 

“Your ten letter word. It’s redemption.” Reyes reaches for his phone, probably checking his damn messages. 

But it worked. No more therapy talk. 

Jesse picks up the pencil and quietly starts to write. 

* * *

Day five. 

He spends most of it with a knot of dread in his stomach, waiting for when Reyes is finally going to ask. But he doesn’t even show up in the morning, and Jesse’s left finishing off the last of the books by himself. 

He naps. He watches the news. No one’s talking about Deadlock anymore. It’s been long enough since they’ve robbed something, the news cycle’s filtered them right out. 

He takes his walk with the nurse. He doesn’t stare down the cop this time, he’s too busy lost in his own head.

The tube finally comes out. His lungs are all good and healthy, now, no more blood to cough up. 

The cuff is still pissing him off, and he makes a pitiful attempt to pick the lock with his pencil. Not to escape—that ship sailed long ago. Just to get a little bit more comfortable. 

That’s when the doorknob turns and who else but Reyes steps in, a lump of something under his arm, and his eyes going straight to the cuff. He raises an eyebrow. 

Jesse just shrugs and drops the pencil back onto the table. “You’re late.”

“Am I?” Reyes settles in his chair once more. For the last time, he supposes. He sets the lump into the other chair—clothes, Jesse sees now. 

“Figured you’d be here first thing in the mornin’.” Jesse eyes the clothes, faded blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a leather jacket—“Those for me?” He nods to them. 

“They’re yours.” Reyes lifts up the jacket, showing it to him, and sets it down it again. “Got all your things from your room back at the Gorge. Figured you’d like that more than me picking out some new clothes for you.” 

Jesse’s eyes linger on the jacket. It’s not his Deadlock cut. The one he uses for trains. Did they find that? Or did Ashe take it, burn it up so he wouldn’t have that privilege?

“So.” Reyes meets his eyes, and there’s an odd sense of tiredness he can see in them. Dealing with a criminal for the past week, no wonder he’s tired. “They’re finishing up the paperwork out there. Have you made your decision?” 

Jesse takes a breath, as if to speak, then doesn’t. Yes, he’s made his decision. But if it’s the wrong decision—if he’s made a mistake—

“Yeah.” He looks down, gripping the thin blanket tightly. He can change his mind. “I want to join Blackwatch.” 

Reyes watches him. Stares at him. Like he can see every wisp of the turbulent thoughts spinning around inside his skull. “Are you sure?” 

Jesse looks up, meets his eyes, and sets his jaw. No more room for hesitation, for reluctance. “Yes. I am.” 

There’s a long, silent moment that passes. Reyes tilts his head slightly, then nods. “Glad to hear it.” He leans over, silver key in hand, and without a second of hesitation, unlocks Jesse’s cuffs. “Get dressed. They’ll be bringing in some paperwork for you to sign, then we’re getting on the road. Gonna be a long drive to Colorado.” He drops the clothes into Jesse’s lap, then heads for the door. 

“What, we ain’t flyin’?” Jesse looks from Reyes to the clothes he’s got—freshly laundered, it smells like. 

“Doctor’s orders. No flying for three months.” Reyes steps out and pulls the door shut behind him, and the room is suddenly silent once more. 

It takes a second for it all to hit him. To really sink in. 

Jesse gets dressed as fast as he can, finally free of that stupid hospital gown, bouncing around the room and grabbing his boots and shoving them on, pricks of pain from his busted ribs as he does. Reyes left a small tote bag on the chair, and he can figure out what that’s for—a little begrudgingly, he starts to pack up all the books that’ve been keeping him busy for the past few days. 

He has to sign paperwork, of course, now that he’s pretending to be a legal adult. His signature is messy and scrawled, but it works fine. 

“You do this with everyone you arrest?” He asks Reyes, while they’re trudging through the freezing parking lot. 

“Nope.” Reyes pulls his keys out of his coat, and a black car about ten feet away chirps. 

And it’s a nice car. It’s a  _ really _ nice car, and Jesse suddenly remembers that Gabriel Reyes is a decorated war hero, who now runs an entire covert department in Overwatch, and probably has a pretty nice salary. 

He turns back to Reyes, who looks just as pleased. “Do I get shotgun?” 

Reyes laughs. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Jesse pulls open the door and slides into the passenger seat, marveling at how  _ clean _ it is—like it’s not actually used. Is this a company car? “How come we ain’t takin’ a train?” 

Reyes drops into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut, and the engine purrs to life. “Thought we wouldn’t want to risk old habits,” he says wryly, giving him a sideways smile. 

Jesse snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna rob it while you’re right there?”

“I know better than to underestimate you.” Reyes flicks on the radio to some jazz station, then the car starts to move, so much smoother than that shitty old truck he used to drive. Before they took it. 

Jesse looks down at his hands. The bruises left by the cuffs are gone, for the most part, yellowing away. The scabs are slower to heal over. “You find any of the others?” He asks, far quieter than he meant to. 

They slide out of the parking lot, the hospital growing smaller in the rear view windows. 

Reyes takes his time answering, like he’s not sure if it's a good idea. It probably isn’t. “Yeah. Over in Arizona. Barns, right?”

“They okay?” Maybe he shouldn’t care. They didn’t care when he was getting beaten. 

Did they get caught, or did Ashe leave them behind? 

Reyes flips the radio to another station. Stalls his answer. He flicks back and forth, lands on some other radio show—talking about the traffic and the weather for tonight. “They’re in the hospital. But they’re stable.”

Jesse almost laughs. Somewhere, a hundred miles away, Barns is in the same boat he was. Cuffed to the bed and waiting to get a visit from Reyes. That’s why he didn’t show this morning, he figures. 

“You givin’ them company, too?” Jesse doesn’t even know if he’d be hurt or not by that. It’s not like he’s told anyone what they all did to him, but surely he could guess. But it’s—it’s Barns, for fuck’s sake. He still needs them to be.. okay, at least. 

“When I can.” 

“Can I see them?” The question comes bursting out before he can stop it. “They ain’t—they ain’t got anyone, either.”

Reyes taps his fingers against the wheel and sighs quietly. “They told me they didn’t want to see you.”

Oh. 

Jesse drops back in the seat and watches the road. 

They don’t want to see him.  _ Why? _ If anything, he should be the one that doesn’t want to see them—they sat by and watched, and didn’t do a damn thing. 

Jesse takes a shuddering breath and his ribs ache in response, pangs to remind him just why he’s in this car. “Fine.”

He looks out the window, watching the houses fly by. Most of them still have string lights up, obnoxious reds and greens. Giant inflatables in their yard of reindeer or Santa or snowmen. Stupid, ugly things. He’s never once been in a house with those up, and he’s glad. Jesse imagines himself popping each one with a knife. Just one short slash and it’ll drift to the ground devoid of snow. 

“You offer them the same deal?” Jesse asks anyway, even though he’s hurt and angry and doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it. 

“No.” His voice isn’t gentle, per se, but there’s a.. warmth in it, almost. 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t recruit agents just because they can hold a gun and look threatening, Jesse.” And now he’s amused, almost. 

Jesse narrows his eyes at him. “Then why am  _ I _ here?” 

Reyes side eyes him. “I’ve seen the footage. I know what a leader looks like.” 

“The footage?” Jesse repeats, baffled. Then it hits him—from the robberies. They didn’t bother to take out the cameras. Why would they? It never took more than seven minutes. And they were never quiet about it. “And how does that make me a  _ leader?” _

“You were all well rehearsed, once you got used to it. Except for last month, at least.”

Jesse winces at the memory. All that panic, all that chaos. Things had been going so smooth before that. 

“Those first few gas stations, banks, they kept looking to you. For guidance, instruction. You were always the one that gave orders to the civilians. You lead the way, until the other three had trained enough for you to be confident in them.” 

Jesse glances at him again, blatantly distrusting. But it makes sense. Sort of. Ashe was in charge on the business side of things, but heists? That was Jesse’s domain. And somehow Reyes could tell. 

“And Barns confirmed for me this morning that you planned out each robbery.” 

Ah. There’s also that.

“Snitch,” Jesse mutters. “What else they tell you?”

“Not much. Mostly talked about the other two.” Reyes shrugs. “We’ll get everyone, eventually.” 

“Oh, eventually,” Jesse replies, decidedly more sarcastic. 

They won’t get Ashe, that he’s certain of. Even if they find her. She’s got enough money to make every one of her problems go away. 

Jesse leans back in his seat and says nothing more, and instead he watches the sun set behind Reyes’s head, giving him that same halo of gold. 

It’s familiar, almost. Driving through the evening and into the night, to a new home, one where he hopes he’ll last longer than five months. A social worker driving and usually not bothering to speak to him, while Jesse’s stuck in the backseat staring out the window, watching all the other cars on the road and wondering if they’re going anywhere more exciting than this. 

The sky goes from pale blue to pink to red and gold and purple, and, at last, to black. And—Jesse smiles when he realizes—they’re far enough out in the middle of nowhere that he can see the stars, the cosmos above them, bursting with color that rivals any neon city. 

“What’re you smiling about?” Reyes asks in the quiet. There’s a smile in his voice, too, clear enough that Jesse doesn’t have to look back at him. 

“Just ain’t seen the stars in a while,” Jesse replies, his head leaned against the window to stare up into the heavens. Threads of gold and silver and blue, every color imaginable woven together into a tapestry. 

Between the stars, the smooth ride, and the music playing from the radio, it’s too easy to drift away to sleep. So he does. 

And his dreams aren’t so bad, this time. This time, he barely remembers them. Just driving along mountain roads, pines rising up around them. Snow falling gently. The drone of voices around him, calm. Lines of street lights, in that gentle yellow. 

_ Jesse, _ someone calls.  _ Nearly there.  _

“Mm.” Jesse blinks his eyes open, yawns, then stares. 

The Watchpoint rises up like a fortress, tall fences, taller lights, and even taller towers inside. Buildings of gleaming white, with orange and blue insignias. Barbed wire along the fences, he sees, meant to keep folks from getting inside. A thin layer of snow blankets the ground. 

They pull up to a little checkpoint, and Jesse stares at the armed guard while Reyes shows him an ID, and the guard gets a little jolt when he sees its  _ Gabriel Reyes, _ and they get saluted and waved through right quick. 

Jesse stares and stares, taking in the apartments, the airfields, the agents jogging together along a footpath, all in sync. He sits up straight to stare at it all, leaning forward, and watches dropships landing and taking off, pilots hopping from the cockpits of jets and pulling their helmets free, laughing with each other as they head through the enormous hangar doors. 

They drive past a building labeled with giant numbers, a blue  _ 3001 _ painted along the white stone. It must be a mile long, at  _ least, _ he thinks, marveling at the size of everything they pass. 

This is no place for him, he knows all too well. 

“Is it always like this?” Jesse murmurs, watching a row of saluting agents through a wire fence. So many people out and about and working and it’s  _ midnight,  _ in  _ December,  _ for some godawful reason. Jogging and flying and drilling in the middle of the night. 

“Oh, it’s not usually this quiet,” Reyes replies, smiling. “We got here pretty late.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he says. 

The car slows to a stop in front of a building marked  _ 3014. _

They’re here? Already? Jesse’s heart jumps up into his throat, and he stays rooted to the spot. His lungs push and press against his broken ribs. Little pinpricks of pain follow it. 

“You okay?” Reyes has got his hand on the door, but he watches Jesse closely, searching his face. 

“I—yeah.” Jesse shakes his head and takes a deep breath, willing himself to get over it. This is not that big a deal. This is better than prison. This is nothing.

He sets his hand on the door. Even that feels monumental. 

“There’s still time to change your mind,” Reyes says quietly. “If you’re having second thoughts..”

“No.” Jesse looks out the window again, where two agents walk along the sidewalk, their arms around each other, bundled up against the cold. He looks up to the building again, almost glowing white.  _ No more running. _ “No, I want to be here.”

Reyes smiles. “Welcome to Blackwatch, Agent McCree.” 

With that, Jesse steps out of the car, into the cold air of the Watchpoint. Into his new home. For now, at least.

He gives it six months before he’s on a prison bus. 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr!](https://mercurialmoon.tumblr.com)
> 
> and for fun, songs that inspired this [beggar's guild by roadkill ghost choir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDZLS3H9pb8) and [this subterranean homesick blues cover by the lumineers](https://youtu.be/POvc7k7vzRI?t=7)


End file.
